


other things than war

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Series: The Lady of Gondor [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Dúnedain - Freeform, First Meetings, Fluff, Gen, Mentors, foresight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 04:30:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12028143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: Gandalf meets Denethor's younger child for the first time.





	other things than war

> ‘It was these records that brought the Grey Pilgrim to us. I first saw him when I was a child …’
> 
> —Faramir, TTT

>  
> 
> Gandalf it was that last spoke to Faramir ere he rode east. ‘Do not throw your life away rashly or in bitterness,’ he said. ‘You will be needed here, for other things than war.’ 
> 
> —ROTK

>  
> 
> ‘But I can say this: you [Faramir] have an air too, sir, that reminds me of, of—well, of Gandalf, of wizards.’
> 
> _—_ Sam, TTT 
> 
>  

Kings and lords and ministers fell not in the care of wizards. Or they ought not.

Curumo, it was true, dwelt in a tower of Númenórean lords, built by Númenórean art, within Númenórean lands ceded to the Horse-lords. He dealt principally with Gondor, that last Númenórean state, had developed a strong friendship with its Númenórean Stewards—men higher and more powerful than those who called themselves kings in other lands. No other wizards, or even Elves, had done more than Curumo to affirm the old alliances in Gondor. Certainly, none had received more in return. Yet it was difficult not to feel that Curumo’s wisdom failed him, there. A wizard must be neither vassal to mortal lords, nor lord to mortal vassals; nothing could be more contrary to their calling.

Nevertheless, those ties must be retained, if Middle-earth were to survive at all. All the more now, when before them, so many paths ran together, however unclearly. At any rate, Gondor had the library. The vast archives of Minas Tirith, preserved under the eye of the Stewards—and few had so careful an eye as Denethor—made for a greater treasure than all the relics out of Númenor.

And in the archives, a girl sat reading.

At first glance, she might have been an elf-child of some bygone age—a small Noldo, perhaps, eager for knowledge. Her black hair was caught in a net of gold, and her spirit gleamed.

At his approach, she started and scrambled around on her bench, though he had made no sound. This one listened to other things.

“I was looking for the master archivist,” he said. “I see that I have found her!”

Her alarm faded. She giggled.

“No,” said the girl, hopping down from her stool. She wore fine grey wool, smeared here and there with dust. Another streak ran over her cheek, but she bowed with great dignity. “I am Fíriel daughter of Denethor.”

She could hardly be anyone else. Even face-to-face, through the drawled Sindarin of Gondor, the impression of a displaced young Elda remained. She had a fair face, dominated by a pair of grey eyes, clear and brilliant. And her mind was full of light, all bright rooms and open doors. He could have spoken to her in thought, had he not risked frightening her.

Instead, he bowed deeply, beard tucked under his hand.

“What are you called?” she demanded.

The wizard smiled. “Many are my names in many countries. Mithrandir among the Elves, Tharkûn to the Dwarves; Olórin I was in my youth in the West that is forgotten, in the South Incánus, in the North Gandalf; to the East I go not.”

She repeated the most familiar of these, drawing the syllables out. “Grey—Pilgrim.”

_Mortal maiden._

“Mithrandir will do very well,” he assured her. “Perhaps we might help each other, Lady Fíriel.”

Her face scrunched up. “I have heard about you, Lord Mithrandir. My father says …” She shook her head. “I cannot think how I would help  _you_. Lord Curunír never asks me anything.”

“I do not doubt it,” said Mithrandir, kneeling to meet her steady eyes. Out of his robes, he fished a large metal key, one that had taken him a week to extract from Denethor. “Curunír is a very old friend of mine, and wise and good, but he does not trouble himself over the small, as I do. I imagine that you see a great deal.”

Fíriel told him, “I see that I shall not always be small.”

He laughed outright, though the truth of it glimmered on the edges of his vision. Far beyond the little girl waited a lady in blue, stern and very tall.

“Indeed you shall not,” he assured Fíriel. “You will be as your great foremothers born again. As for your father …” He held out the key to her. “Lord Denethor gave me this to enter the treasury. Might you direct me?”

Soberly, she examined the key. Then she gave a firm nod.

“Yes, this is Papa’s. Come with me.”

Fíriel led him through the halls, a route that he of course might have found perfectly well. He need not have distracted her from her amusements, nor himself from his urgent research. But something hung about her, beyond her father’s air of Númenor, her mother’s sea-longing. Some other destiny, some mark of—he did not know.

Lords lay not within his care. But one small lady, he thought, might. 


End file.
